Dialed three sixes and nine double one,
wire’s connected to silence. I’m done,
paid for no reason – the voice lost in calls,
winter is claiming what used to be fall’s.
And due to the crisis
who knows where Christ is.
He might call in sick
for a lengthened week.
His Might takes upgrades. As easy as Fate,
the search leveled up a second too late.
The presence of time is now obsolete.
My hope is in words and heart – to appete.
All constants – in breeziness,
held boasting – resumes.
But checkups are quick.
Who’s hick and who’s pick.
Another day’s born with syndrome of Down,
another night’s slain with fervor by sun.
And I am the one, who idolized, killed...
who drew silhouettes before shadows milled.
I am intersection
of twinge and perfection.
Just silence. Soul-phone
has no dialing tone,
but jamming and static
of chaos.
November 24, 2008
Copyright ©2008 Iouri Lazirko
Dial tone
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108120303478
Свидетельство о публикации №108120303478
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